In Hot Water - Mary Baxter Lynn

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be alone. If she hadn’t been with other women, she would’ve been with a man. No matter. Who she was with or what she was doing was certainly none of his business.

      He told himself that last night had been a one-time fling.

      She had been lovely in every way imaginable with striking black hair, blue eyes and alabaster skin that was enhanced by a dusting of natural color on her cheeks. Of course, he’d been in the company of more beautiful women than he cared to name. Yet none had affected him like she had.

      One look at her and he’d been down for the count.

      Had it been her lush, tantalizing lips or her huge eyes that had danced with secrecy when she’d looked at him that had completely unsettled him? Or had it been the whiff of perfume he’d breathed when she’d first passed him? Or her traffic-stopping smile? He decided it had been her entire body, the way all her curves connected in just the right places.

      “Can I get you anything else?”

      The sound of the waitress’s voice brought him back to reality and after answering no he gazed back at the woman, leaving his breakfast untouched.

      He’d never been married to anyone or anything except his work, but he’d slept with his share of women. He’d never quite had as cursory a one-nighter like last evening. But that woman had turned him on faster and more furiously than anyone he’d ever known.

      She still did. Just looking at her made his insides burn. He shifted his position for fear someone might see his obvious hard-on.

      Fearing, too, that she might spot him staring at her, he forced himself to eat a few bites of the omelet he’d craved moments ago. Now his craving lay elsewhere. His appetite for food gone, he again stared at her.

      This morning she was dressed in another pair of shorts and a different halter top that exposed the lightly tanned cleavage between her well-endowed breasts. Remembering how it felt to touch and taste her, he could hardly remain in his seat.

      So he stood up. Telling himself he had nothing to lose he took two steps toward her when his cell rang. Cursing, he reached for it at the same time she turned and spotted him. Their eyes locked and he sucked in his breath and held it, waiting for a sign of acknowledgement.

      Nothing.

      She looked straight through him as if she’d never laid eyes on him. His blood turned to ice. He had figured she was too good to be true. Now he knew it. His cell rang again and, turning away, he barked into the receiver.

      One

      Two years later

      The disinfectant smell of the O.R. seemed more tainted than usual with the metallic odor of blood. Added to the normal tension surrounding a difficult surgical procedure was an almost tangible panic among the assistants to Seymour Ramsey, the tall, silver-haired doctor who alone appeared unaware of the frantic beeping of various monitoring devices. The only visible sign that he might be concerned was the profuse amount of perspiration that saturated his surgical cap and face.

      “Doctor, are you all right?” A nurse’s voice broke the tense silence.

      Seymour swore under his breath and turned a glassy-eyed look at her. “Yes, dammit. And don’t ask me that again.”

      The nurse muttered, “Yes, sir.” But the rigid set of her jaw and the sudden flush in her cheeks revealed her desire to say much more, especially when she stole a glance at the other members of the surgical team.

      No one responded to her silent plea. They all continued with their assigned jobs.

      A few minutes passed before the anesthesiologist announced, “His blood pressure is dropping, Doctor. He can’t afford to lose much more blood.”

      The assisting surgeon glared at Seymour, “What the hell—”

      “Just shut up, Chastain.” Seymour’s tone was as harsh as his words. “I know what the fuck I’m doing.”

      Silence once again reigned over the room as the nurse mopped Seymour’s wet brow. She jumped slightly when he growled, “I just need one more minute.”

      “Better make it a fast minute,” the anesthesiologist countered as he watched the rapidly falling blood pressure of the man on the table. “I’m doing all I can here,” he added with a horrified look on his face.

      Moments later, Seymour stepped back and jerked off his mask. “There. It’s done.” He cast a glance toward his fellow surgeon. “Sew him up.”

      Seymour stalked out of the O.R. into the doctor’s lounge where he immediately leaned over the sink, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. He sensed rather than heard someone approach from behind him. He looked up and saw Chastain’s face in the mirror. Seymour whipped around, slinging droplets of water on the other doctor. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be closing my patient.”

      “He’s in no hurry, Seymour.” Chastain’s tone matched the cold fury in the older surgeon’s eyes. “He died right after you walked out of the room. He lost too much blood.”

      “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Seymour pounded his fist on the edge of the sink.

      “The family’s in the waiting room,” Chastain said in an accusatory tone. “You’d best go talk to them. They’ve already waited a long time.”

      Minutes later, Seymour shuffled toward the waiting area where the three members of the Dodson family sat, their hearts registering in their eyes.

      “Doctor Ramsey?” Michael Dodson rose, fear in his voice. “How’s Dad? Is he—”

      Seymour forced himself to face the younger man. “There’s no easy way to say this, son. Your father didn’t make it. I’m sorry—”

      “But what happened?” Michael asked in a screeching voice as his mother and sister broke into hysterical sobs and moans. Michael advanced until he was within touching distance of Seymour, his stance threatening. “You said he’d be all right.”

      Seymour stepped back, then began trying to explain, but words failed him. He mumbled something about blood pressure.

      “Sir,” Michael interrupted, “you’re not making any sense at all. In fact, you’re slurring your words. What’s wrong with you? You’re acting crazy.” he said incredulously. “Don’t tell me you operated on my father in this condition.”

      Seymour rubbed his forehead. “I did no such—”

      The sentence was never completed. Seymour’s eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the floor.

      Two

      The heat was sweltering.

      Maci had taken that into consideration earlier when she’d slipped into a peach-colored sundress and a pair of strappy sandals.

      Summer in south Louisiana was notorious for its combined heat and humidity, but this year both were setting records daily. She couldn’t seem to get cool no matter where she was.

      Despite the cold air pouring out of the air-conditioning vents, Maci found herself perspiring. Maybe that was because she was upset. Since she and Seymour married a little over two years ago they had rarely disagreed.

      That had changed after she had learned of her husband’s secret dependence on prescription drugs. Lately she’d been at her wits’ end as to what to do about it, especially after he’d lost a patient and friend on the operating table.

      Only after that tragedy did Seymour admit he’d blacked out while talking to the family and that both he and the incident were under investigation.

      Once she had gotten past her stunned horror, Maci hadn’t wanted to know the dirty details associated with his vile habit. Instead, she had pleaded with her husband to

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